Coded

They were in their fifties. The woman had artificially black hair that crowded around her pudgy face. The man stood back and let his wife do the talking. They were waiting for somebody in surgery, a daughter or a friend, and I was telling them how they could find the tracking information.

I used to volunteer at Methodist hospital on Saturday mornings. I worked the information desk by myself most mornings. My mom got my fired - that's a different story - so now I don't work there anymore. I miss it. Lately I've been having flashbacks to moments I remember. This particular memory happened on my second week.

The wife was nagging me, telling me how to do my job. It was too early in the morning for me to take anything she said personally. The husband went to go sit down a bench and hunched over his knees. Eventually she went to go sit by him and I helped other visitors. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her begin to nag her husband, using broad gestures and pointing at me.

It was my second week - what did she think I was doing wrong? With each ferocious look she gave me, I doubted myself more and more. The husband kept grabbing his chest.

She waddled over and began yelling at me again, only this time it wasn't about her daughter (her friend?) in surgery. "My husband's chest hurts! Do something! What are you supposed to do? Is he dying? If you let him die in a hospital I'll sue this place for all its worth!"

I tried to console her, and I pointed to where the ER was. I so wanted to stand up out of my swivel chair and yell back at that wild mane of artificially black hair. But then I glanced back at the man and he was shooting daggers at his wife. And then he winced and clutched his heart again, and I called in a code blue.

They tell you not to be nervous to call in a code - better safe than sorry. But it was my second week, and I knew it was rare to call in a code. The crash cart came rushing in from down the hall, just like my trainer told me it would. They rushed around him and started asking him questions. To my satisfaction, they told the wife to just step aside and let them do their jobs. They determined he was going into cardiac arrest, that they would handle it from there, and that he'd be just fine. Then both of them, the man in the background and his obnoxious wife, were out of my sight.

Later, one of the crash cart medics told me that I'd done the right thing and all of the self-doubt evaporated. By that time my heart rate had returned to a gentle 85 beats per minute and I was back in the flow of the information desk. I don't think that counts as saving somebody's life. I'm pretty sure it doesn't. Afterwards, I felt more relieved that fulfilled. I just know that when I grow up, if I decide to dye my hair artificially black when I've gone gray, I will not pester information desk volunteers. Nothing is more annoying to a volunteer than a nagging woman who doesn't know what she's talking about.